


Daddy's Home

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Abuse of italics, Gen, Jim being sinister, Monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-21
Updated: 2010-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-19 15:13:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty muses on life, his many loves, and Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daddy's Home

_**Daddy's Home [oneshot]**_  
 **Title** : Daddy's Home  
 **Pairing** : None, just good old Jimbo  
 **Rating** : PG  
 **Word Count** : ~1400  
 **Summary** : Jim Moriarty muses on life, his many loves, and Sherlock Holmes.  
 **Warnings** : Um. Copious usage of italics?  
 **Beta** : ...This isn't. But I've read it far too many times, so have faith!  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Ye Holy Godtiss or anyone remotely cool :(  
 **A/N** : So I don't normally do this, but this just sort of happened and I like it enough to post it.

  
Many times in my fabulous life have I been likened to a deity. I now take it as one of those things, really; it seems an inescapable fact that wherever I go I will attract positive attention and I will either exploit or ignore it. Most of the time it’s so incredibly _draining_ , despite being _fabulous_ for the ego. Not that my ego needs more than a gentle little pat from time to time; I am perfectly aware of my own brilliance. Having it reinforced by strangers on a regular basis doesn’t hinder things, though.

I’d recount my life, and how I managed to become so remarkable, but that’s _boring_. Not for you, of course, because it’s a _real tour-de-force_ , you’ll be rapt. But I don’t need to hear it again. I’ve already lived through it. And I do get tired easily. Luckily I’m normally very good at finding ways to amuse myself, and there are normally _lots_ of people willing to oblige me. To dance, so to speak. But people are silly, aren’t they? It’s _silly_ how they’ll enter into my little game thinking that they’re special, they’ll bring something new to the table, they’ll be able to outwit me, but everyone does the same dance in the end. And everyone dies; when and how just depend on how well you cooperate. Or elude me, but that doesn’t happen very often.

I’m afraid I’m just one of those people you can’t escape from. Sorry! If I want you, or if I just decide that you’ll do, it’s probably a good idea to come to terms with the idea that struggling just won’t be an option. And there’s definitely no point in trying to plead, or appeal to my sensitive side. A _sensitive side_? Hee! Did having a sensitive side save sweet little Carl Powers? Oh, he was an emotional lad; he probably leaked fluid from his eyes while it flooded his lungs. He’s probably crying now, seeing his beloved trainers in a sealed polythene bag at Scotland Yard.

Oh no, that’s right, he’s not. Because he’s dead.

I sleep well at night because I know I’m better than you. Than everyone! The thought is wonderfully soporific; the comprehension of my genius is all it takes for me to drop off like a baby. I think about a lot of things before I tuck myself in for night time – how to satisfy my clients, how to deal with unsatisfied clients, the actual alien idea of having _unsatisfied_ clients – but that’s always the one I end on. That I’m just _great_. Isn’t it beautiful? I always find that self-satisfaction rolls off the tongue far better than self-flagellation. Of course I’ve never had any need for self-flagellation, or even self-immolation, thank God! I’m really far too fantastic for that. Although suicide will always be interesting to me – the infinite amount of causes all centring in to one, final, conclusive outcome. I think if business wasn’t booming then that’d be something I’d go into: finding some way to list, then categorise them all. Although, it’d be _far_ too appealing to tick them off as I went along. Put them into basic categories at first, then arrange them in order of time frame, pain, elaboration, etcetera. Just as a teensy little experiment, of course. Like _he_ does.

You knew I’d mention him sometime; I bet you were waiting for it, weren’t you? London’s knight in shining armour. The light to my dark. The converse side of the same coin. Oh, don't be stupid. He’s not _like me_. For starters, why would one choose Spencer Hart over Westwood? Seriously? And he’s just so _overt_ , leaping round back streets after taxi drivers or wrestling foreign gangsters. _Ew_. True gentlemen remain refined behind the scenes and leave a legacy of secrets and hearsay, they don’t start fistfights in bars or fire weapons or _dodge explosions_. When I bring up his flaws it seems stupid to associate us together at all. Really, when all we share is a word in our job descriptions, that’s supposed to make us chums? All you need to do is contrast my infamy to his, and you have your answer there. Sherlock Holmes can walk into a bar and remain incognito even after shouting his name and title to all of its occupants. I, however, merely need to have a lackey enter before me to warn the patrons of my forthcoming dazzling appearance, position myself at an advantage point for the perfect view, and then simply observe the mass exodus of the general public from the building. Heehee! Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Shirley.

He doesn’t have power. Sherlock Holmes will never have power. Power is influence, power is the string-pulling from behind that no one notices, but that affects everyone. Power is being able to click your fingers and ask for anything in the world, knowing that it’ll be settled by your feet by the end of the day. Power is being God.

I know this because I have that power. You’ve probably noticed that I have the power to decide who survives and who perishes in my little games, and isn’t it _fun_? Every time I get that phone call I’m transported back to Ancient Rome; I’m the emperor poised to decide the fate of the gladiator with the angle of my thumb. I’m the one they bow to even if their backs are broken. I’m the one they fan with palm leaves because they know that upsetting me will cost them more than their monthly wage. I’m more than just chosen by God; I _am_ God. No wonder there’s always a natural disaster every few years; the big man upstairs knows what I’m talking about when I talk about the thrill. The power of life and death and its teetering edge at your fingertips, constantly, forever at your disposal. Even God gets bored.

One day my dear detective is going to realise that his entire life has just been one big dance for Daddy. Honestly, I can’t wait. I’ll bring popcorn. All his _deductions_ and crime solving and cases and all the times he’s ever _helped people_. All entirely fruitless. He thinks he’s better and he thinks he can outsmart me but his IQ can’t be as large as he thinks it is because morons have figured their errors out sooner. I’ve warned him _so many times_ and yet his arrogance tells him otherwise. So I’ll take him. I told him. I’ll take his brother and I’ll take his John and I’ll take his occupation and his boss and his home and, eventually, but after some time, I’ll take his life. People fall apart when you steal from them; I know this because I’ve seen how people cry over stupid, petty little things, like burglaries and arson and their relatives dying. But, why did this _happen_? It’s _so inhumane_! Can’t they see how much it _hurts_? Why would they _do this_ to us? I told you: I’m not human, I’m God, and I do whatever I want to because I’m unstoppable. So I’ll steal away from Sherlock Holmes everything that matters, leave him with only his _magnificent mind_ for company, and see how that suits him. Wait until he begs for the bullet. Then perhaps I’d make an exception and get my hands dirty; putting lead in such a brain would be something _far_ too fun to pass up just for ceremony’s sake.

So run along, Shirley. You know as well as anyone how much I love to play with fire. Or the fuse. It’s all technological nowadays, how _fancy_! No more lighting the touch paper – all it’ll take is a finger on a trigger or a button on a telephone or the word to leave my lips and you’re _gone_ , dear. You can continue on with your stupid little life and try to pretend that it _matters_ , and it’s not all _just a game_ , but soon enough you may just find that the ticking in your head becomes an actual, living presence. And there’s a quandary, _ooh_ , who’s it going to be? The family or the friend? Can you _read me_ , Sherlock? Who will I _choose_?

You better listen closely for that knocking on the door, my dear.

Because when you hear the knocking, that means Daddy’s home.

-


End file.
